Bygone Days
by Torulfr
Summary: After finding a fictional book in the library, Harry starts to have strange dreams - dreams involving himself and Malfoy of all people. As Harry reads more, the stranger his dreams become, and so does Malfoy. But, he can't have feelings for him, not based off of dreams, could he?
1. Chapter 1

**Title: Bygone Days**

**Author: Torulfr**

**Summary:****After finding a fictional book in the library, Harry starts to have strange dreams - dreams involving himself and Draco Malfoy of all people. As Harry reads more, his dreams become stranger, and so does Malfoy. But he couldn't have feeling for him, not based off of dreams, could he?**

**Hey, Torulfr here. I know I just started another Harry/Draco fic not even a week ago, but this idea was just killing all of my Equus plot bunnies. This story was inspired by the movie Anonymous that I watched the other day and now I have half of this story planned out. Oh, and if this is confusing, then I did my job. This chapter is meant to be confusing, well at the end anyway. **

**Chapter 01**

With a quick glance, Harry saw that Ron was sitting with Lavender and Hermione was next to him, taking notes diligently on whatever Flitwick was saying. He would just get them from her later on. Harry was ready to pull his hair out. This rift between Ron and Hermione was starting to take a lot out of him. They were his best friends, but currently not with each other, and it was enough to drive any sane man mad.

When the bell tolled, signaling the end of the lesson, Harry threw his books into his bag and bolted out of the classroom before either of his friends could corner him into spending time with them. He wanted to just read in a quiet little corner. Harry was half way to Gryffindor Tower to get a book to read when he realised he had finished reading all the Muggle books he had brought with him. He had hastily thrown six books into his trunk when Dumbledore had arrived at 4 Privet Drive to fetch him. Six had usually kept him busy throughout the school year, but he had found himself with more free time with Ron and Hermione avoiding each other like the plague itself.

With a frustrated sigh, Harry turned around, not too sure on what he was going to do now. He didn't really feel like reading the Half-Blood Prince's book, no he did that when he had to spend time with Hermione. He headed towards the library, hoping Neville had needed help with his homework again so that Hermione was occupied with him instead.

Harry almost stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of Malfoy, who was wandering about without his usual posse. He noticed, as Malfoy walked closer, that the boy's skin was pallid and a faint purple rested beneath his grey eyes, like he had been up all night. Harry was still suspicious of Malfoy, and was still convinced that he was a Death Eater and that he was behind the cursed necklace, but there was just something about his appearance then that screamed vulnerability.

_Maybe Malfoy really was sick when he dropped out of the game?_ Harry thought. But, he did not really want to believe it. All he saw was the worst in Malfoy, but he really never had a reason to think otherwise.

Harry looked back over his shoulder as Malfoy passed him without a glance, probably heading down to the dungeons to the Potions classroom to see Snape or to just go to the Slytherin dorm, but then if it was the latter, why go alone? Trying not to think about anymore, Harry continued on his way to the library. It was the last day of school before Christmas Break and the library would be relatively empty, save for the handful of dedicated students that would have squatted in the library if they could.

Opening the door, Harry poked his head around it like child, hoping that Hermione wouldn't be there. He looked around tentatively, searching and searching-

"Mr Potter, either you come in or I will close that door on you head," Madam Pince said with her arms full of books, but a threatening look in her eyes.

"Sorry, Madam," Harry said shyly before slipping into the library. He guessed that she was still mad at him for the state of his _Advanced Potions-Making_ book.

He passed the librarian quickly, setting off in a random direction. Harry walked through the isles leisurely, stopping every now and then to pick a book from the shelf. He had already read most of the fictional novels in the library, and there was no way he was going to read a biography. Sighing, he decided he would venture to the back of the library, a place surely only Hermione went to.

The shelves and books back there were coated with dust, probably only cleaned once a year by the house elves. Harry trailed his fingers along the book spines as he passed them, looking for something interesting, but most of those books were in Latin or were ridiculously outdated spell books. Now, you would think that a school such as Hogwarts would be teaching the students Latin, since all the spell incantations were based off of the language, but no.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw a book wriggling itself between two fat, old tomes. Dust started sprinkling down and he could read the title painted on the spine of the book in delicate golden letters: _**Tragedy of the Grim. **_The book continued to wriggle about from the top shelf, obviously wanting to be read.

"Tragedy of the Grim," Harry called out. He always did feel a bit silly when he had to talk to the shelves to get the book he wanted.

The book flew out, paused, turned back to its original resting place and ruffled its pages at the other books before floating down to Harry, who was weary of the book after that little display. The book was still dusty, so he dusted it off with the hem of his robes. The book was a bit weighty, obviously old, but in good condition.

Walking back to the front of library, Harry opened the book and was the title again written in a typical Elizabethan styled text: _**Tragedy of the Grim by Beldon H. Eldridge**_. He had never heard of the author, but given that he had only really started reading wizarding literature little over a year ago, he probably just hadn't encountered his works yet. __

"Madam Pince," he said, drawing the woman's attention away from some sort of ledger, "I was wondering if I could lend this over the holidays."

"You will understand that I'm hesitant to leave any book in your hands Mr Potter," Madam Pince replied sternly. "However, seeing as it is the season of giving, and few enough students are exposed to the works of Beldon Eldridge, I will grant you permission to leave Hogwarts with the book in your possession."

Harry smiled, but winced when she continued talking.

"If I find a single tear or tarnish, you will regret it Mr Potter."

Harry smiled again and thanked her, wishing her a Merry Christmas. He left the library and cast a quick _tempus _charm and saw he still had an hour and a half until dinner. Going into an open classroom, Harry sat down and held the book in front of him. It looked plain enough, and nothing happened when he opened it earlier, but still, magic was malicious sometimes. With a sigh, he started reading. It was actually turned out to be a play script.

_**Love hath transcended death but may Death transcend Love?**_

That was a depressing opening line. Harry knew it was a tragedy, but did it have to be depressing from the start? Sighing, he continued. By the time he had read the third page, Harry knew he was hooked. He just couldn't stop, and before he knew it, he had to go to dinner, and then get ready for Slughorn's party. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but he knew he had no valid excuses for skipping it this time, and he had to ask Luna of all people to go with him.

**XxxxX**

While the party itself had been useless, but the conversation he eavesdropped on between Snape and Malfoy… that was something else. Snape had been very adamant in offering his help, as if whatever Malfoy had to do was physically difficult for him.

Harry sat up in the bed, flicking his wand to turn on the lamp. He just couldn't sleep. He had been lying in bed for over an hour but he was still wide awake. Harry reached over and fumbled around for his glasses and the book. Once he could see again, he opened the book and read from where he had last stopped. Emilia had just met Degaré. In the beginning, Emilia had narrowly escaped Death while out riding in the forest, saved by her horse, Blaxton. Death, who had been angry at this, arrived in England disguised as a French nobleman and conspired with Lachlan, one of the next in line for succession of High Lord, to kill Emilia, thus driving her father, the other probable High Lord successor, into a great despair.

He had no idea where the story would go. Harry had fallen in love with Emilia, but sympathised with Death, who was now Degaré. It was the best book he had read in a long time, even if it was written in Elizabethan English and it took him a while to read and understand a single sentence. __

Harry read until his eyes started to droop, then he set the book down and took off his glasses, throwing the duvet and blankets over himself, ready to finally sleep.

XxxxX

Harry knew he was dreaming, otherwise, what explanation was there for the desk to be littered with parchment and with scattered bits of paraphernalia and his ink stained hands? But, it felt like he was just looking though his eyes while his body functioned on its own. Harry could however, hear faint whispers, like thoughts. In a sheer moment of panic, he thought he had entered someone else's mind, well, other than Voldemort's.

Harry reached over and gently brushed aside a prowling little chimera statuette that was starting to wander over to the new pages filled with wet ink. The chimera hissed at him, but seemed to understand and hopped onto a book before it froze in place.

"Stupid cat," he mumbled before got up, pushing the chair out behind him.

Harry seemed to currently be in a bedroom with a large four poster bed with heavy blue drapes, large rugs over the hardwood floor and a sort of old-fashioned loveseat in front of the fireplace directly opposite the bed. Harry felt relaxed here, so it was obviously his, well this dream version of himself semed own it.

With a sigh, Harry sat down on the loveseat. Closing his eyes, he let his head roll back as he relaxed his sore back while basking in the heat of the fire. A pair of hands suddenly ran down the length of his torso and rested on his hips. Harry wanted to jump up and hex whoever it was, but he couldn't get his body to do anything. His body in fact, relaxed even more.

"Mmn, I wasn't expecting you," he said, turning his head to the side, his cheek brushing long soft hair, "but this is the most pleasant surprise."

Harry wanted to open his eyes and see who the hell he was talking to, because it definitely wasn't a woman, not from how defined those arms were, or from how the person had chuckled.

"You did not expect me to leave you to your own devices on this night, did you?"

Now it was confirmed, it was definitely a man that had a distinctive French accent. Harry had no problem with that, because he had experimented with a Muggle boy or two over the holidays, and he had to say, it wasn't that bad, hell, it was surely better than what he had done with Cho. But, Harry was sitting on the fence a bit, not really knowing which team to bat for.

"Your family has been putting a lot of pressure on you lately. I didn't expect to see you for another fortnight."

It took a moment for his eyes to focus as they opened, but when his eyes landed on the man standing above him, Harry wanted to scream. It was Draco fucking Malfoy, standing over him, with a suggestive smile on his face.

Harry reached up and carded his fingers through the Malfoy lookalike's long blonde hair. He felt so content, hell, even happy. Harry was so confused as to why felt like that, because frankly, it was Malfoy, just with longer hair and an older face.

"Raoul," Harry said in a half whisper. "How long can I keep you tonight?"

Malfoy, named Raoul for some reason or other, titled his head teasingly. "I have arrangements that will keep me here until dawn. So, I am at you beck and call, my lord."

Harry couldn't believe his ears, or what was coming out of his own mouth. "You little imp! Are you that eager to spread over my sheets?"

Harry was now convinced that this was officially a nightmare, but there were feelings of lust and something else that was warm and fuzzy that he was too scared to even name that made it hard to think of it as a nightmare.

Malfoy turned his head, brushing his lips over Harry's cheek and slid his hands down, fingers brushing over his groin. Harry closed his fist into Malfoy's hair and used it as leverage to half pull the man awkwardly over the back of the couch and into an awkward, sloppy kiss. Harry was mortified. He was kissing Malfoy! Not just kissing either, but tongue down the guy's throat kissing. To make it even worse, his body was reacting to Malfoy's little ministrations on his inner thighs.

Malfoy suddenly left his grasp. Harry looked over his shoulder and saw him standing there in nothing but a pair of black tights and riding boots, with his pale blonde hair loose and slightly unkempt from where Harry had grabbed it.

Harry could now hear his dream self's thoughts clearly now and they were very dirty thoughts. He felt like blushing, but he smiled at Malfoy. With some effort, he stood, suddenly noticing a pain in his left leg that wasn't there before he sat down.

Harry let out a grunt as he took the weight off of his leg. He felt ashamed and old, but he didn't know why, or what the hell was wrong with his leg in the first place.

Something cool was suddenly pressed under his hand. He looked up and saw Malfoy standing right by him, a concerned look in his eyes, holding a cane to him.

"What did the healers tell you?" Malfoy asked rhetorically. "No, walking without a cane!"

Harry felt anger flare in his chest, so he turned away from Malfoy and walked over to his bed, his footsteps sounding irregular now that he used the cane. He couldn't help but frown as he sat down and contemplatively held the cane out before him.

"It makes me feel beyond my years," he said quietly. Harry suddenly felt a whole range of emotions. This wasn't how he had wanted to spend the night, he didn't want to argue when he hadn't seen the man in three weeks.

_Where the hell did that come from?_ Harry now really wanted to wake up. He was starting to think like his dream self instead of just hearing his thoughts, and that was scary.

"I know," Malfoy said as he got onto the bed behind Harry, wrapping his arms around him tenderly. "I know."

Malfoy placed soft kisses down Harry's neck and over his shoulder while his fingers traced abstract patterns over his lover stomach, under the loose-fitting cotton tunic. Harry put the cane down before he could drop it and leaned back into Malfoy.

"I love you," Harry whispered tenderly.

**XxxxX**

Harry woke with a start, like his soul had just returned to his body in one great rush. He let out a shaky breath and turned over onto his stomach. Immediately, Harry notcied that he was aroused, but he didn't want to believe it was because of some weird nightmare-like wet dream involving Draco Malfoy of all people. It just wasn't right.

To make matters worse, his dream self loved Malfoy, or Raoul, or whatever the hell he was called. He didn't love Malfoy, not even secretly. Malfoy hated him and in turn, Harry hated Malfoy. It was just the simple facts of life.

**There's the first chapter. I hope you all liked it, because he certainly enjoyed writing it. Sorry for any grammar mistakes, hope they weren't too distracting. The next chapter will follow our favorite blonde, Draco Malfoy and what exactly he's getting up to. **

**Well, feel free to leave a review, even if it is criticism, but I'm writing this story for my own entertainment and it will be a plus to own that you enjoyed this first chapter as well. **

**See you all next time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: Bygone Days**

**Author: Torulfr**

**Summary:****After finding a fictional book in the library, Harry starts to have strange dreams - dreams involving himself and Draco Malfoy of all people. As Harry reads more, his dreams become stranger, and so does Malfoy. But he couldn't have feeling for him, not based off of dreams, could he?**

**Guest: I'm continuing this story no matter what. I love writing it, and it's good to know you're enjoying it so far and I hope you continue to enjoy the story.**

**Chapter 02**

"I love you."

That was the first thing Draco heard. He knew it was a dream. He had been having these strange dreams for a long time now. He knew it was a man that was in his arms and that the skin was kissed was clean, soft and smelled of lavender. The man also had black hair, a well-kept beard and had recently sustained a serious injury that nearly crippled his left leg. That however, was where his knowledge ended. He had never been able to see the man's face. It had always remained blurred whenever he would look at the man.

At the moment, Draco didn't really care. He was a teenage boy that was stressed from school work, his tasks set by him from the Dark Lord and he was frustrated, sexually frustrated. He had never been in a serious relationship, never staying with a boy for longer than a month, and now he had been without any form of intimate physical contact in three months. So, to say he didn't mind receiving attention from a tall, dark-haired stranger fabricated by his subconscious was an understatement.

Draco could feel the man pressing up against him, grabbing his long hair and pulling slightly. He had never thought that someone pulling his hair would be a turn-on, not that he would ever let anyone pull his hair, or that he would ever let his hair grow that long, but here he was, in a dream with some mystery man pulling on his hair and Draco liked it. He pressed himself closer to the man, closing his arms around him.

Draco opened his eyes and let himself fall back onto the bed, yanking the man back down with him. With a small laugh, the man turned himself around and positioned himself over Draco, who snuck his hands under the man's shirt. The body underneath his hands was warm and sinewy. Closing his eyes, imagined all the scars pass under his fingers as glided up the man's torso, seeing them with his mind's eye. He didn't know how he knew, but he knew that the one particularly long rough strip of scar tissue was caused by a rare thorn stemmed subspecies of Devil's Snare, and another smooth, taunt patch of skin just on the small of his back was from a heated poker.

Draco didn't know why this man, who was a figment of his imagination, was so detailed or unique. As far as he knew, he didn't have a scar fetish, because if he did, he would be all over Potter. Morgana knew that Potter must have his fair share of scars that he had gained from his little adventures around Hogwarts and more recently from the Tri-Wizard Tournament and that scar on his hand that he had gotten from Umbridge. But, he would never go to Potter, they hated each other and that was just a simple universal truth.

Opening his eyes, Draco smiled at the man hovering over him. Sighing, he ran his hands through the man's dark hair, massaging his scalp. He was surprised at how normal this felt. His dreams usually involved himself, as a Frenchmen that had some family infighting problems and this mystery man. Draco had dreamed of some ordinary things, like browsing around a wizarding and sometimes Muggle Parisian market or fencing practise, but then, he had dreams of a bit more… provocative nature. Like the one he was in now.

The man bent his head and kissed Draco slowly, but passionately. Kissing the man back, he started loosening the ties on the front of the man's shirt. They broke their kiss long enough to pull off the man's shirt and their boots. With a smile, Draco flipped the man onto his back and instead of straddling his hips or torso, sat beside him, reaching over for a small, intricate silver handcrafted, star shaped canister.

"Do we have to do this now?" the man asked.

Draco raised an eyebrow at him. "Yes, we _have _to do this now." He took off the lid and dipped his fingers into the cool green salve. "If I'm going to be here all night I expect you keep me entertained and you can't do that if your leg starts paining."

The man sighed and took off his breeches. Draco put the canister back and turned his attention to the man, who was obviously aroused, but he ignored it for now. He quickly examined the man's leg. A large gnarled mess of raw scar tissue started at the top of his thigh and ended just above his knee. Draco wanted to grimace at the sight, but in the back of his mind, a voice whispered that it looked better than what it did a few weeks ago. Gently, he rubbed the salve over the scar and took a bandage from the bedside table and wrapped it around the man's thigh.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" Draco asked sarcastically.

"No, but only because you were the one doing it," the man said, smiling broadly. "Do you know what else you can do for me?"

"I cannot even begin to fathom what that might be."

Draco mentally sighed. Finally they were going to get to the good part. He smiled at the man. Straddling his torso and reached behind him and with his fingers still oily from the salve, lightly stroked the man's cock.

"Would it have something to do with this particular problem my lord?"

Draco leaned forward and kissed the man again, but with more need and passion than before. As he pulled away however, he saw brilliant green eyes looking back at him. _**What pretty eyes**_, he thought.

**XxxxX**

Slowly, Draco woke up. He wanted to hex something! He always woke up before he could actually have sex with his mystery man. Turning to lie on his back, he quickly took care of the problem, thankful that all his roommates had gone home for Christmas, leaving him with a room all to himself. Getting his wand from the bedside table, he cast a non-verbal _**Tergeo **_to get rid of the mess.

Getting out of bed, Draco quickly showered and dressed. It was the first day of the Christmas school holidays and the first time he would be spending it at Hogwarts. It would be boring, even if he had homework to do and the Vanishing Cabinet to fix. He usually spent his holidays at home, at Malfoy Manor and frequently went hunting with his father or spending time with his father's family, an offshoot of the Malfoy family that had come to visit from France. But, he couldn't do any of that, not while his father was in Azkaban and his mother had opened by their home to the Dark Lord.

He wasn't happy with his mother, no not at all. She had never loved Father, never, and when Draco had been born, she had shoved the baby into the hands of his father and the house-elf Diddle to raise. Draco suspected that his father was only a Death Eater and only had the Dark Mark because of his mother, who might have fed him strong love potions to create an obsession strong enough that his father would go against his better judgement and side with the Dark Lord. Once he was in, he couldn't get out, even when Mother had stopped feeding him love potions.

Draco stopped thinking about it and left the Slytherin dormitory and went over to the Great Hall for breakfast. The House tables were empty, with only a hand full of students left and only a few teachers at staff table, he enjoyed a quiet breakfast of warm oats porridge with honey and a slice of toast with fig jam. While he ate, he noticed that Snape was absent from the staff table and felt a weight lift from his shoulders – now he didn't have to go through all the effort of avoiding him.

Draco left and went straight to the Room of Hidden Things in the Room of Requirement, while making sure he wasn't followed of course, but since Potter and his gang had left for the holidays, there was no-one left to bother him. He spent hours trying to fix that damned Cabinet, trying different rune sequences paired with old spells and even tried older, forgotten spells that bordered on being Dark, but nothing worked. He dallied around the room, picking through the junk that lay scattered about, but finding nothing interesting to keep himself occupied with. He spent another hour working on the Cabinet before he left and decided to venture over to the library before lunch was served.

Draco opened the library door and greeted Madame Pince, who was sorting through a pile of books and greeted him back. He liked her, she never probed for information and generally didn't care unless it involved her books, but he had gotten to know Madame Pince over the years and she was actually a very interesting woman. She had often referred Draco books she thought he might enjoy and enjoy them he did, and they ranged from the works of William Shakespeare to biographies.

"Oh, Mr Malfoy," Madame Pince called. "I found an author whose works I think you'll enjoy. Go to the back shelves and ask for Beldon Eldridge."

Draco frowned. The name seemed very familiar to him, but he ignored it and went as instructed. He had never really been to the back of the library, and now he saw why. The dust was so heavily coated on the shelves and books, he could hardly read the titles along the book spines "Beldon Eldridge."

Draco watched as books wriggled and flew out of shelves and shook themselves free of dust before floating down in front of him. Ten books levitated in front of him and Draco looked over each of them carefully. After some consideration chose a book titled **The White Hart of Palmer**. As he walked back to Madame Pince, the other books tried to follow him or stuff themselves into his arms. He randomly snatched another book that had been tapping him against his head and put those two books down on Madame Pince's desk.

The librarian smiled when she saw Draco being assaulted by books. "These books haven't been taken out in ages, so imagine they are eager to be read."

"When was the last time they were read?"

"Oh, actually another student came in yesterday and left withthe **Tragedy of the Grim**. It's written by the same author, and that was what made me think you might like his works."

Madame Pince quickly recorded that Draco was taking out the books and that they need to be returned within two weeks' time, and blushed slightly when she read the title of the second book.

"Are you feeling well Madame Pince?" Draco asked.

"Yes, dear," she said quickly. "Enjoy the books and come back when you're done. I haven't been able to talk to anyone about these books in a long time, so it would be nice to know your opinion of them."

"Of course," he said politely as he left with the books under his arms. Before he closed the door, he heard Madame Pince shout, "Get back to the shelves, you lot!"

Draco smiled before he got control over his face again and put up a mask of indifference. He didn't like appearing as a cold-hearted bastard, but if he made any friends his mother deemed inadequate, they would have been dealt with. So, he kept on his mask and kept his circle of friends within Slytherin. While Blaise, Theo and Pansy were his friends, he craved for a bit of variety, something different. Slytherins were forever sly and suspecting of their peers, and how could you form a true friendship from that?

Draco sat down at the Slytherin table, and noticed the only other Slytherins there were a pair of first years a fourth year. No-one he knew on a first name basis, or could bother to become acquainted with at the moment either. So, while he ate, he started reading **Holin and Aubépine**, the annoying book that had been poking his head. By the eighth page however, Draco closed the book and quietly left the Great Hall. He now understood why Madame Pince's face had turned red. He couldn't read that in public! Even if he managed to keep a straight face, someone could pass by him, peek over his shoulder and see what he was reading. He decided to go back to the Room of Hidden Things and read there. Yes, no-one would find him there.

Draco sat down on the floor, with his back against the Cabinet and thought about what he had read so far. The two characters introduced thus far were Holin, a nobleman from London and Aubépine, an auror from France who was hunting down a group Dark witches and wizards. The two men had been introduced through a mutual friend, and to say they got along well would be an understatement. The two had started sleeping together by the seventh page already! He didn't expect the book to have sex scenes in it, or to even have that much detail because it was written in the Elizabethan ear, where homosexuality was a big no-no, even amongst the wizarding community.

It didn't bother Draco, but something that did bother him was the familiarity of the characters, especially the familiarity he had with Aubépine. As he read more, the more he identified emotionally with Aubépine. Holin, however had a very familiar physical description – wild black hair, green eyes…

Draco froze. Potter had green eyes and black hair, and so did his mysterious dream man. He frantically flipped the pages back and looked for page where Holin described Aubépine in detail. When he found it Draco read it over. Aubépine had pale skin, long pale blonde hair, grey eyes, a slightly pointed face and he came from France! The similarities between Harry and Holin, and between Aubépine and himself were just too many to be a simple coincidence.

Dropping the book and kicking it away, Draco tried to think about anything else other than that book, but it was too late and now when he thought about the scenes he had just read, it wasn't between Holin and Aubépine, it was between himself and Harry bloody Potter. Draco groaned, and bumped his head back against the hard wood of the Cabinet. How the hell was he supposed to look at Potter ever again without think of that damned book? He suddenly remembered a useless piece of information and made yet another connection between Potter and himself to the book. Holin was old English for holly, and aubépine was French for either whitethorn or hawthorn. Potter's wand was made from holly and Draco's from hawthorn.

It was all just too much coincidence, but maybe that was all it was? The book itself had been written what, nearly 400 years ago? That was centuries before either of them was even born! Yes, all just one big coincidence. Draco sat there convincing himself of that, because he really did want to finish reading that book. And so what if he now imagined himself in Aubépine's place, sleeping with some handsome nobleman? It wasn't as if any would know that instead of Holin, he saw Potter instead. No, no-one would know, and it wasn't as if Potter wasn't handsome, which was a definite plus.

Draco got up and picked up the book, inspecting it for any damage. Luckily it wasn't damaged; it had only picked up a thick layer of dirt from skidding across the floor. Dusting off the book, he put it in his robe pocket and worked on the Cabinet again. Absentmindedly, he wondered if he could slip into Snape's rooms and steal a Draught of Dreamless Sleep, because now, there was no doubt in Draco's mind as to who the mystery man in dreams would look like now.

**I had so much fun writing this. Poor Draco, I took his fun time away. I hope he wasn't too out of character. There will be a time skip in the next chapter, but don't worry, it's only a few weeks. Oh, and please forgive any grammatical errors that I may have over looked while proofreading. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: Bygone Days**

**Author: Torulfr**

**Summary:****After finding a fictional book in the library, Harry starts to have strange dreams - dreams involving himself and Draco Malfoy of all people. As Harry reads more, his dreams become stranger, and so does Malfoy. But he couldn't have feeling for him, not based off of dreams, could he?**

**Thanks for all the favourites and alerts. I had the story mostly planned out, but then with this chapter, it took a life of its own. I hope you enjoy! **

**Chapter 03: **

Harry sighed. He was cold, and he was bored and for once, he could not wait for school to begin. He had finished all his homework and he had only a few pages of the **Tragedy of the Grim** left. All any of the Weasleys wanted to do was play Quidditch in the back garden, and while he loved Quidditch, he didn't want to play it every day. The only other variety he had had from the sport was playing chess with Ron, but that wasn't as fun as it used to be either, because after a few games and close observation, Harry had now figured out Ron's strategy and finally beaten him. To say the redhead was surly was an understatement.

_Luckily_, Harry thought, _I don't have to stay here much longer, only a few more days._ He had put his broom back into the broom shed and made his way back inside, stomping the snow off his shoes at the back door and went in, removing his thick winter cloak. The others were still outside, playing Quidditch, but he had had enough. Harry went upstairs to get the book and a quilt, but as he walked back downstairs, he thought about the strange dreams he had been having. The first had been the most shocking because of the man named Raoul, and his likeliness to Malfoy, but also because of the familiarity of the dream, almost as if it were a memory instead. With every dream, more details came forth, for instance, he actually had a thick, trimmed beard and no scar on his forehead. He liked the look of himself with a beard and resolved to himself that once he was done with school, he would start growing a beard, no matter what anyone else thought.

In his dreams Harry had come to distinguish Raoul as someone entirely different from Malfoy, because Malfoy would never smile, make jokes or even be remotely kind. Raoul was the eldest one of some well-off family and worked in the newly formed Ministry as the International Relations envoy to other European countries, and wasn't the spoilt brat that Malfoy was. Luckily, there had only been one dream where he had actually slept with Raoul, but now he could never look at scarfs, ribbons or cords the same way, not without thinking about what he did with them in that dream. Harry didn't know if he was supposed to have enjoyed it or be disgusted by it simply because Raoul had Malfoy's face. The dreams following that luckily did not involve anything dirty between him and Raoul, but involved simple things, like writing, reading or even long games of Backgammon with Raoul. He liked those dreams. They made him forget about the war with Voldemort, at least until he woke up again.

Harry curled up on one of the couches in the living room, with a quilt over his shoulders and the book in his hands. This was how he liked to send his time, and after a time, he was so relaxed, that he fell asleep with the book in his hands.

**XxxxX**

The first thing that Harry noticed as he slipped into the dream was the smell of rain. He opened his eyes and saw the heavy, grey clouds in the sky. It was raining a few kilometres away, and looked to be moving his way. He had always liked the rain, and it seemed that it was like that for his dream-self as well, as he felt his body relax and take lungful's of the fresh air. A breeze picked up and Harry looked down at his surroundings. Large planes of long grass stretched out around him, which whispered as the breeze passed by. It was a very tranquil place.

Harry thoughtfully scratched his beard and leaned heavily onto his cane. He didn't know what he was doing there or what he was waiting for. Sighing, he saw a tree not too far off where he could sit for a while. As he walked, he felt like he had aged twenty years, and it got worse as the air started to cool and raindrops fell. Bracing his hand against the tree trunk and the other on his cane and let out a heavy breath. It felt like he had run a marathon, but he had only walked a few meters to reach the tree, and the ground was even, with no sudden dips or rocks to make the path difficult to navigate.

Once he had caught his breath, Harry became aware of the texture of the purple-black bark against his hand. He caressed over it gently with the tips of his fingers, and looked up as he felt a stray raindrop fall on his cheek. The leaves of the tree were slightly wrinkled and oval-shaped, with a few dark berries and delicate flowers bunched together amongst its branches. It was a blackthorn tree, a tree considered to bring ill fortune. Like most things of 'ill fortune', it was misunderstood. Harry patted the trunk and used it and his cane as leverage to sit down against the tree.

Harry was suddenly assaulted by visions from his dream-self. He saw a younger version of his dream-self being led to the tree by, who he assumed was his mother, a tall, delicate looking woman with thick curls of blonde hair and green eyes. The woman talked to the tree, and put her son's hand to the tree trunk, looking around the top of the tree curiously. Harry could see small flickers of light guttering in-between the flowers.

The detail was astounding. Harry had always just accepted his strange dreams of late as his subconscious formation of a kind of retreat, that just happened to use Malfoy's face as the face for his dream-self's lover, because if he was honest with himself, he would admit that Malfoy was easily the most good-looking guy in their year. These visions were of a childhood that he certainly never had, and of a woman who did not even resemble his real mother, nor was she someone he had met, even briefly. It was all confusing, if not slightly scary.

Thankfully, that was the only vision he saw, and Harry was back in the present, well, present being back in the place of his dream where he was before the visions had started. He rested his head against the tree trunk and looked up. He was overcome by a sad feeling. This would be the last time he would be seeing someone, at least, that was what it felt like. Harry wondered if some form of Sirius would manifest here, because when he had fallen through the Veil that was the only time he had really felt the impact of someone leaving. He had been there when Cedric died, but he hadn't seen it himself, only heard what had happened, and if he never really knew him all that well.

Harry sighed as he saw those small flickers of light again. The lights were swaying in the breeze, gently and slowly floating their way down to where he sat. Holding out his hand, a speck of light landed on the juncture between his thumb and forefinger. He felt happy now, and as if sensing that, the specks of light dispersed and left behind small, purple-black skinned fairies. Harry smiled at the one on his hand. It was about seven centimetres tall, with a thin, almost skeletal body, white hair and disproportionately large black eyes. Its clothes were made from the tree's leaves and bark. He knew that the teeth in its mouth were just rows of tiny sharp, shark-like teeth and coupled with claw-like nails and their skin tone, they looked quiet malicious.

A sudden thought came to mind that told Harry that blackthorn fairies were now newly classified as Dark creatures. He couldn't believe it. They flew about him happily, some sitting on his shoulders, while a group of them were gathered around the hair behind his ear and started making tiny braids. Harry lifted his hand, and the fairy on it up, closer to his face.

"How are you today?" he asked the fairy.

A small, insect-like buzz started as the fairy spoke, which Harry thought must have been their language, but did not understand a word of it, not even the wild gestures it made as it spoke. The fairy froze, turned around and then flew up back into tree top, with the other fairies not too far behind.

Harry looked up after them, smiling. The fairies were skittish around other people, especially adults. As soon as that information filtered through his mind, Harry wondered who else would be there, considering that he was in the middle of nowhere. The sound of footsteps came from behind him and ever closer.

"I was wondering when you would come," he said out loud.

Harry felt his heart beating in his chest like a wild horse running. He had no idea what was going on, but he managed to force himself to calm down. As his hand reached into his pocket, Harry thought he would reach for his wand, but instead to out sheaves of bound paper and laid it in his lap. Running his fingers over the cover page, Harry saw the title: **Tragedy of the Grim**. Another wave of sadness washed over him and a small voice in the back of his mind started whispering.

The footsteps were louder and closer now.

Looking out over the field of green grass, a small, sad smile formed on Harry's lips. A bit to the east, he knew that the land dipped there, and then at the foot of the hill was Blackthorn Place. Home. He had never even heard of the place, and now he was thinking of it as home. Things had now gone from strange to bizarre. Frist it was the vision of the woman, then the fairies, and now this Blackhorn or Blackthorn Place. It was just getting too much.

Without even noticing it, Harry had his wand in his hand, and when he looked at it, he realised it was nothing like his holly wood and phoenix core wand. This wand was longer and heavier, clearly made from different type of wood altogether, and who knew what core it had. Without even knowing what he was doing, Harry flicked his wrist and a twig that had been lying on the ground transfigured into a single, white tulip.

The voice that had previously been whispering in his head spoke clearly now. _I hope he understands_, it said, over and over. Harry had no idea why, but the thought of whomever not understanding whatever they needed to understanding was very distressing. His fingers tightened around the papers, but eased when he picked up the tulip and laid it gently on top of the script.

The person was now almost directly behind him now.

Sighing, Harry scratched his beard to occupy his hand. From the corner of his eye, he saw his wand lying on the damp grass beside him. Why wasn't he holding it up and ready to defend himself from the stranger? Why was he in the middle of nowhere in the first place? Who was supposed to get the script and tulip? What did message where those items meant to convey? Why did he feel so sad, but comforted at the same time? All those questions raced around in his head like bees in a beehive.

_Why do I have to die today?_

**XxxxX**

Harry awoke with a start, bolting up, throwing both the quilt and book off of him. His head was spinning and his breathing rugged. It took him a moment to realise that he was in the living room at the Burrow, and not under a tree in a field of grass thinking about imminent death.

"Everything alright, dearie?" Mrs Weasley asked as she walked into the living room and sat down in her arm chair and started knitting.

Harry looked up and her, unsure of what to say. "Just a bad dream."

Mrs Weasley frowned, looked down at the fallen book and quilt from her chair across the room.

"I remember when I read those books," she said. "Is it still compulsory reading material for History of Magic? I don't remember having to buy any, not even for Bill or Charlie."

"Uh, no, it isn't compulsory," Harry answered as he bent over his legs to pick up the book and quilt. "But, Mrs Weasley, what do fictional books have to do with History of Magic."

Mrs Weasley chuckled, shaking her head. "Most of the plots in those books were heavily based off of real events, but the author wrote them in a fictional fashion to avoid getting arrested. Even the entirely fictional ones were read to give us a better understanding of what life was life back in the sixteenth century."

"So, Professor Bins actually talked about something other than the Goblin Wars?" Harry asked jokingly, trying to get rid of the shivers that ran down his spine.

"Of course, he loved talking about the books, their author and what events they were meant to emulate." Mrs Weasley paused her knitting and pressed the pens to her chin, thinking. "If I remember correctly, the last book, **Tragedy**… something, was almost a biographical account of the author's life. Legend has it that he literally wrote the last two lines with his last breath."

Harry wondered if she knew anything more. He thought the last part was complete rubbish. Who could write with their dying breath? Holding the book in his hands, he turned to where he had fallen asleep – on the last page. The page was only two lines long, but still, it was the last page.

_Emilia: Why is my last breath on this morrow? _

_Death: Why not die on a beautiful morrow such as this? Why not draw a last breath for love?_

Harry felt like throwing the book as far away from him as possible and run screaming. Emilia's line was exactly like the last thought he had before he woke up, except in old English. Things had first gone from strange to bizarre and now fucking weird. He imagined a series of dots in front of him, and an equally imaginary marker busy connecting the dots one by one. Harry's most logical was that the book was like Tom Riddle's diary, whereby the reader could get sucked into it and see events play, but they more he thought about it now, the more that answer seemed wrong. His dreams were from a first-person perspective, he wasn't a separate person watching on.

Mentally, he crossed that idea off of the list and stared at the last page. To Harry, all the other ideas were stupid and maybe impossible. He needed more information on possible enchantments that could have been placed on the book, and it seemed he would need to wait until getting back to Hogwarts for that. He did, however, have one source of information right at hand.

"Mrs Weasley?"

"Yes?" she asked without looking up from her knitting.

"How did the author die?" Harry hoped she actually knew, and didn't start the legend with 'Legend has it.'

"He was killed while he was writing the last book, sitting under a tree."

"But how?"

Mrs Weasley stopped her knitting and looked Harry in the eye. "He was hit with the Killing Curse, Harry. A lot of people were not happy with him back then, and many people might have even wanted him dead. Such a shame really, his life was like one of his romantic tragedies."

Harry didn't want to come over as too curious, she did seem to like talking about it, so he decided to push his luck a bit.

"Why do you say that?"

"I don't remember everything, you'll have to ask Madam Pince for that," Mrs Weasley said. "I was the assistant librarian when I was in school. If you're interested in books, maybe you should think of taking on the job yourself, I'm surprised Hermione hasn't already."

Harry felt like pulling his hair out. She knew everything else, except about the man's personal life. He closed the book and absentmindedly ran his hand over its spine. He had two possible leads to follow, neither of which he was really enthusiastic about pursuing, but he had to decide which would be the less painful choice, Madam Pince, or Professor Bins. The librarian was likely to scowl at him and throw him out of her library because she was still distrustful of his respect for books. The Professor on the other hand was likely to talk his ear off about useless information that while is related to the subject, was off track and of no use to Harry.

After thinking it over, Harry decided that he would start with Madam Pince, and if it was fruitless, then he would move on to Professor Bins.

**XxxxX**

Draco sneezed as more dust floated down from the top shelves. He didn't know why he thought it would be a good idea to offer to clean the back section of the library for Madam Pince, because the only reward he was reaping was getting cover in fine dust and spending a obscene amount of time in the library dusting off the shelves and putting the books back into their proper places. It was a waste of time, but it did distract him from his problems.

He was finishing his last shelf for the day, levitating books down from the top shelf and placing them gently on the table next to him. Draco had been shocked at the state of some of the books, some had cracked leather covers, while others had mould in-between their pages. He had set them aside so that Madam Pince could take them to a specialist to repair. When the last book was off the shelf, Draco cast a cleaning spell, and sat down by the table so that he could wipe off the books. He couldn't use cleaning spells on them because they were too fragile for the spell, so he did it the old-fashioned way – wiping off the cover with a damp cloth and applying oil to some over leather bound books that needed it.

Draco was busy for another hour before he left the library. Dinner was not for another two hours and he had already spent his morning trying to fix the Cabinet, so he had some free time. He returned to his empty dormitory. He undid his tie and lay down on his bed, taking a book from the bedside table. It was a Christmas present from Madam Pince. He hadn't had time to read it yet, and there was no title on the spine or the cover, but from the leather/skin used to cover the book, Draco could tell it was old, as well as potentially very valuable.

Opening the book, Draco found a neatly folded piece of parchment with his name on it. He quickly read it and stared at the book.

_Draco,_

_I didn't know what to get for you this year – until I remembered about this gem from the Pince family library._

_This journal has been in my family for generations. It belonged to one Séraphin Beauregard, a Healer that lived in the seventeenth century. The journal is incredibly detailed and tells of a forgotten part of Wizarding history._

_You might even call it a little windfall that there is a romance in its pages as well. Unless, of course, I misjudged your reaction to __**Holin and Aubépine**__ and you are not interested in a romance of that sort. If not, you should still keep the journal and read it, no matter your preferences._

_Wishing you all the best, and a Merry Christmas,_

_Irma Pince_

_P.S. Séraphin Beauregard's mother was Clarice Malfoy, who was married of to a French Pureblood named Armand Beauregard. So, now you have no choice but to read it – it's a part of your family history._

_P.P.S. The journal is covered in occamy skin._

Draco reread the letter twice, each time struggling with the fact that the book in his hand was a journal written by one of his ancestors. He had never really been taught about his ancestors. No, his father was always too busy teaching him the difference between right and wrong. Teaching him that what his mother taught him was wrong.

Draco opened the book again and saw a beautiful, circular, cursive script: _The Journal of Séraphin Beauregard. _Tentatively, he ran a finger over the page. The paper was smooth and definitely of high quality, but you couldn't really expect anything less of a pureblood wizard, now could you? Turning the page, Draco started reading.

_7 August, 1702_

_I am to set sail aboard the Rose tomorrow at the break of dawn, when the tide is at its highest and the winds favourable, or so I'm told by the captain. _

_I am a part of a team of Witches and Wizards selected by the French Ministry of Magic to strengthen out Ministry's foothold in America. The British Ministry had only sent a handful of their own with the Muggles when they set out to colonise the New World. Our presence there could result in the annexing of the British colonies. _

_My role in this team is that of a Healer, with two apprentices. My work is seen as inferior to that of a Potions Master, Herbologist, scholar and Unspeakable. Who, however, do they turn to when there is an outbreak of Dragon Pox, Spattergroit, Scrofungulus or when there are bones to be fixed and poisons to treat? _

_I am anxious of our time at sea. Nearly three months confined to a floating tub of wood with Muggles. It will be easier for my apprentices and I to blend in, as we have studied medicine in both the Muggle and Wizarding world. I worry for the others, whose behaviour and prejudice might well expose us. _

_Mother had been proud the day I graduated as a fully trained Healer. Father had not been so enthusiastic. He would have preferred a son that had a more respectable position in the working society, something more fitting of a Beauregard. What Father would never understand was that I do not value money above all else. _

_I had always been interested in Healing magic, since the day Madame Carré gave me that potion to fix my broken arm. From that day, I used my free time to learn Healing magic from her, since it was only an elective available to sixth year students. Bless that woman's soul, for she helped me realise my dream and reach my full potential. _

_I can only hope that my skills are enough to start up a clinic by myself. A new land brings new creatures, new diseases and new maladies, therefore, requires new cures such as spells and potions. This adds to both my anxiety and anticipation for this upcoming journey. If I create a cure for a previously incurable or new disease or malady, I will get that recognition my Father so greedily craves. _

_I can only pray that this journey will be filled with winds for the sails and calm seas. _

_However, I have heard rumours that pirates have been infesting the waters. _

**So, there's the third chapter. Originally, I was thinking of carrying the Elizabethan Harry and Draco through the entire story, but, as you all just witnessed, I killed off Elizabethan Harry. From this point on, there will be less dreams, and more time between Draco and Harry in the present.**

**This chapter is slightly longer, because I will be absent for about a good few months. I have Prelim and Final exams to study for, so I hope this longer chapter will keep you happy until then. **

**Oh, and does it really matter who is on top? The entire notion of people judging a story based on who tops in the relationship is completely ridiculous and a lot of people miss out on great stories because of it. For now, Harry is the top, but don't expect a timid Draco. **

**See you all when I see you!**


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